


my time’s water down a drain

by singlemalter



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Gen, Mafia AU, Minor Character(s), One-Sided Attraction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-26 13:54:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22951144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/singlemalter/pseuds/singlemalter
Summary: They meet in a dark alley, film noir style.
Relationships: George Russell/Torger “Toto” Wolff
Comments: 5
Kudos: 27





	my time’s water down a drain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mondaycore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mondaycore/gifts).
  * Inspired by [loose bolt, complete machine](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20826272) by [mondaycore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mondaycore/pseuds/mondaycore). 

Moonlighting as Claire Williams’ on-call errand boy: that’s George’s first mistake.

The second is, of course, trusting a powerful man, someone with complete sway over all of _Syndikat_ Mercedes, as though that’d worked out for all the others before him. He’s not really _with_ Mercedes—they have a pity alliance with Williams, and George tags along for the ride, pretends he’s part of the big dogs instead of a shitty family barely hanging on to its former glory.

Sometimes he feels like what Frank calls him, a rich kid with too much time on his hands, thinking this is a fun little game. (Then again, if he is just a posh boy getting ahead of himself, what should they call the likes of Charles Leclerc?)

What matters, however, is not what Frank thinks, but what Toto sees in him—Toto, who ruffles his hair and says there’s a great future in him; Toto, who fights tooth and nail to stop anyone from poaching George, regardless of how much flack he gets for it or how many deaths it may take.

Toto, who’s leaning over George with an almost predatory look, gazing down at him with the kind of intensity reserved for sinister malefactors and double-crossers. “You’re very special, George,” he says slowly. “I don’t like the rumours I’m hearing around my office.”

“Rumours?” George knows the underworld is gritty, insincere as long as it’s convenient, but he can’t afford to let Toto believe he’s on the verge of apostasy. “You know I’m loyal as it gets in this business.”

“So was Nico,” says Toto, and that’s what this is about, isn’t it, cutting his losses. Even powerful men have their own grievances, George supposes—while he dodges bullets to deliver a package nobody in their right mind could order, Toto dwells on the sudden disappearance of their former underboss. 

Years ago, but who’s counting? Certainly not George. “I’m not Rosberg,” he offers, a weak olive branch. 

Toto rests a hand on his hip. It’s a calculated movement—George’s eyes flicker down to a gleam on his waistband, the light above them reflecting off deadly silver. “Maybe you aren’t, and I hope you will never be,” he agrees. “But Herr Daimler isn’t happy.” 

_Has he ever been happy_, George thinks bitterly. “What do you mean?” 

“It’s a secret.” Of course.

“Everything’s a secret with you,” says George, and Toto laughs, pats his head. The gesture is patronising, a harsh bucket of cold water on George’s ill-advised fantasy, the one in which he’s the boss of Mercedes yet still kneels under Toto’s desk, bloody hands and adrenaline buzzing in his veins from a successful bust. 

_This is a business relationship_, George reminds himself. _Nothing more, nothing less_.

Something like desire must show in his poorly concealed expression, because Toto smirks. “Is there something on my face?”

“No, I’m just… thinking.”

“About what?”

With a hat casting shadows over his face, Toto seems more menacing, closer to the kingpin he is, the real operator behind Mercedes, and George struggles to speak; it feels like heresy, an act of defiance he’s not courageous enough for. “Nothing in particular,” he lies. 

Thankfully, Toto doesn’t push him. He never does. “I see. And how’s business in Grove?”

George sighs, resigned. “I shouldn’t tell you this much, should I? Well—we’re basically out of money, and you know Claire’s bloody insane when it comes to keeping the family legacy, she’d rather die than ask for help.”

Toto hums. “That was not what I heard in our last meeting,” he says. “I was told things were a lot better now that you have that Canadian boy on your side.”

While that’s true, Toto doesn’t know that Nicholas is another one of the kids he thinks lowly of: inexperienced, dim _nouveau riche_, plenty of talk and no action. His biggest contribution, so far, has come in the form of suitcases full of cash; privately, George’s quite annoyed that he’s the one going deep into the field and putting his neck on the line.

Still. He has to feign nonchalance, so he shrugs. “He’s fine,” says George. “But the two of us aren’t enough anymore. I don’t know why Claire can’t just—swallow that massive ego of hers.” 

“You know, George, you are a very smart young man,” Toto says. He takes the box of cigarettes in George’s breast pocket, tucks it inside his own coat. Entitlement, maybe, but certainly warranted. “There’s an old book about the German resistance against the Nazi government. The author published it after the war. You know what it was called?”

George shakes his head. 

“Jeder stirbt für sich allein.” Toto pauses, looks into George’s wide eyes. “It means two things: everybody dies alone, but also, it’s every man for himself. Do you understand what I mean? Every man dies for himself, on his own.”

“Yes,” says George, though he’s not sure he understands at all. 

“Then you understand Claire,” Toto continues. “And everyone else. It’s a dog-eat-dog world, right?” 

“I suppose so.” Maybe it’s because he’s merely a pawn on the board, a kid with the admiration of few big names yet no real street cred, that comes with the years—but George can’t fathom wanting to stay so isolated in a cruel world, connecting only through weak partnerships that can be gone in the matter of hours. 

He constantly goes the extra mile for Toto’s approval, after all. Making risky connections, begging for help where he shouldn’t, is his entire _modus operandi_ at this point.

“I know you have what it takes,” Toto says, nodding. “Good luck, George. You won’t disappoint me.”

He turns around and leaves without another word; George watches, silent, as he walks into the dark streets, a black-grey blur with more on his shoulders than any bystander could imagine.

Despite his height—both metaphorical and literal—Toto walks with his head down, and George wonders if that’s the price for carrying an entire world of mobsters on his back. 

**Author's Note:**

> Title from _Waiting Room_ by Fugazi: _ I am a patient boy, I wait, I wait, I wait, I wait; my time is water down a drain_. (It’s totally a joke about George wanting a seat.)
> 
> DTS-INSPIRED MAFIAFIC BECAUSE TOTO SAID HE LOOKED LIKE A MAFIA BOSS IN THE GERMANY EPISODE, AND, well. For Monday, of course. Sorry I can’t do justice to your genius AU, but. Y’know!
> 
> [The book Toto mentions is a real book](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Every_Man_Dies_Alone), and a very good one at that.
> 
> nicorosberg.tumblr.com


End file.
